Page 10 of Lyon of Scotland (The Lyon’s Den Connected World)

She should have listened to her family. She should have listened to the little voice inside that said her father was right, but she was too eager to prove herself. If only she had heeded her feelings for Lord Strathburn and tried to be more of a friend to him.

Days ago, he had been so attentive, so kind. Yet she felt as if she did not deserve it. Wanting to be strong, she had been so foolish. She did not want him to know, and think less of her.

“Just as well you are shed of Whitworth, the reprobate.” Dove tilted closer. “Pay the debt and free yourself of all this. Go back to Scotland—and stay away from my son. Or I will ask my cousin to resolve this. She extracts unmarried young ladies from difficult circumstances. She can help you.”

“No!” A cold chill ran through her. He had mentioned marrying her off so that he could be paid. “I told you I would not do that. I am not that desperate.”

“You cannot refuse,” Dove snapped.

“But the lady is refusing, sir.” A voice came from the shadows behind Dove. Strathburn strode toward them, kilt swinging, his expression stern, his figure regal. He tipped his head. “Miss Gordon. Is there a problem here?”

Dove stepped back. “Lord Lyon! I did not know you were here.”

“Sir Frederic,” Strathburn replied.

In his cool reply, Hannah sensed a tensile thread of anger. Had Strathburn heard what Dove had said about debt and prison? She could have sunk through the floor in humiliation. But as he fixed Dove with a steely gaze, then spared a glance for her, she saw only concern in his dark eyes.

When he stepped close to her, she felt relief, and a sudden, silly urge to lean against him. Instead, she smiled up at him.

“Lord Lyon—an impressive title,” Dove said. “Quite an achievement for a younger gentleman, even if it is the Scottish government.”

Strathburn did not flicker an eyelash at the jab. “Miss Gordon,” he said, “I wondered if you might enjoy some refreshment during the interval.”

“I would love that, thank you. Shall I go with you?” In answer, he offered an elbow and she took it gratefully and turned under his guidance.

But Sir Frederic came with them. “Miss Gordon and I were just having a pleasant conversation. I can fetch her refreshment.”

“It did not sound pleasant to me,” Strathburn said. “Did you know Miss Gordon and I are neighbors in Edinburgh? Her father is a good friend.”

How nicely he stretched the acquaintance. Hannah smiled at Dove.

“Her father!” Dove growled.

“Aye. When he learned I was coming to London, he asked me to look in on his daughter and make sure she is content and secure here.”

“Secure,” she repeated. “I appreciate that.” In silent reply, Strathburn shifted his arm to press her hand against his side in reassurance.

“Ah, Naylor is over there,” he told Dove. “He was looking for you earlier, sir.”

“Was he? Very well.” Dove stalked off without another word.

Hannah looked up. “Did Sir George want to see him?”

“No. I just wanted to be rid of him,” Strathburn said.

“Thank you! He was—” She stopped.

“Being a bother? Seemed so.”

“A bit. It is just the way he is.” She shrugged and could not meet his intent gaze. She wondered again if he had overheard what Dove had said to her.

“Come with me.” Instead of leading her up to the lobby, he drew her down the dark, empty aisle toward the curtained stage to pause in deep shadow. “Is there something I can do to help, lass?”

His concern, his willingness, brought sudden tears to her eyes. She needed help but would not ask, so shook her head. “It is fine.”

“I was not exaggerating, you know. Your father did ask me to look after you. But not to spy. Do not fret over that. He is worried, I think, about his daughter being alone in London. If I were a father, I would do the same.”

If he were a father, he would be so kind and caring—and who would be that little girl’s mother? A breathless thrill sank through her. “I suppose you are right,” she said.

He set his hand over her gloved hand resting on his arm. “Miss Gordon, if you need something, tell me. Dove’s behavior tonight boils my Highland blood. If he harasses you again, I want to know it.”

“Truly it is fine,” she said. “He is just—not very nice.”

“An understatement, from what I saw.”

How much had he seen and heard? “Please do not trouble yourself about it.”

“Well. My offer stands. Would you like lemonade? It is not very fortifying though. If they had whisky, I’d fetch a dram. Your cheeks are too pale. But lovely,” he murmured.

Reaching out, he touched her cheek, then withdrew. Instantly she missed that gentle, fleeting touch. It carried a sense of safety that lessened the anxiety she felt after her encounter with Frederic Dove.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

He leaned down to hear her just as she tilted her head to speak.

His cheek was very near hers. His breath sifted loose spirals of her hair.

She felt entranced. For a moment, the candlelight, the noise of the crowd beyond, the stage and seats vanished.

His dark eyes, the tender curve of his mouth, his hand brushing her gloved fingers, were all that existed.

“Should you need me,” he said, pulling back a bit, still very close, very quiet, “I am at Mivart’s Hotel here in London. In Edinburgh, I am on Northumberland Street, not far from your family home.”

“Aye,” she breathed, staring, caught in his lure. His hand captured hers, his fingers pressing hers, warming through her thin white gloves.

“I do not offer lightly, lass.”

“I understand.” Somehow she felt utter trust in him in that moment. She needed that, and wished he could always be there.

Do not be foolish, she told herself. Trusting quickly was in her nature, and she had been mistaken before because of it.

“Hannah!” Georgina called, rushing down the aisle. “We—oh!” She stopped, seeing the Scotsman. Her eyes went wide. Strathburn stepped away, adding distance.

Hannah smiled. “Lord Strathburn, this is my cousin, Miss Georgina Gordon-Huntly. Lord Lyon in Scotland,” she added.

“So pleased, Miss Gordon-Huntly.” He inclined his head.

“My lord, I am pleased!” Georgina looked behind her. “My stepbrother is just there and would like to meet you. Oliver!”

The young man came toward them carrying two filled glasses with a napkin balanced on top. “Lemonade and sugar biscuits just as you ordered, Georgie. Hannah! We were looking for you. Have some.”

“Thank you.” She took a glass and rescued the wrapped biscuits before they could topple. “Oliver Huntly, Esquire, this is Lord Strathburn. The new Lord Lyon.”

“The very Lord Lyon, sir! A pleasure! I heard you were in town.”

“Mr. Huntly. It is good to meet so many Scots here in London.”

“We have a good wee Scottish community here. I was born in Edinburgh, though we all came to London when my father married Georgina’s mother. May I say, it is delightful to see a Scotsman wearing tartan so proudly and bravely in London.”

“I may have shocked a few English this week,” Strathburn drawled. He glanced at Hannah with an amused look. “Miss Gordon proudly wears plaid too.”

She smiled, and he chuckled, a velvety resonance that made her want to lean toward his solid calm. Yet she sensed beneath that calmness a taut wire of power and secrets, of trouble mastered, a hard, active current beneath a calm exterior.

“There goes the bell to return to our seats,” Georgina said as the chimes rang out. “We have only a few minutes.”

“If I may,” Strathburn said, “let me invite you to watch the rest of the play with me. I am a guest in the Duke of Gordon’s box this evening with Sir Walter Scott.”

Georgina gasped in delight. “That would be lovely! It is my grandfather’s box after all, which Sir Walter uses when he is in the city. Hannah, would Sir George mind if we change boxes?”

“He would understand if we wish to meet Sir Walter.” Hannah felt a wash of gratitude to Strathburn for the offer—and the rescue from Dove tonight.

“Mr. Huntly, would you care to join us?” Strathburn asked. “If you will escort the ladies there, I will look for Sir George and let him know.”

“Ah, there you are,” Sir Walter said as Dare approached, having seen Scott, Naylor, and others. “I believe you know everyone here.”

“I do. The chimes have rung to call us back, so we have just a minute or two. Sir Walter, I invited Miss Gordon and her cousins to join us for the rest of the play. Sir George, I hope you do not mind. They were eager to meet the poet they admire.”

“Of course.” Sir George shrugged. “Sir Frederic, over here!” he called. Seeing the man approach, Dare bristled.

Dove juggled small glasses of wine in both hands. “Gentlemen. Lyon,” he barked.

“Dove.” Dare raised a hand to refuse a glass as they were handed around.

Sir George sipped wine. “Good, but I prefer stronger drink, such as Lord Lyon brought to London as a gift to the king—good Highland whisky.”

“It has not yet arrived,” Dare said.

“Scotch whisky?” Dove raised his thick gray eyebrows high.

“The king is quite fond of it,” Scott said. “The Scottish Parliament sent a quantity by steamer packet as a gesture of good will, and Strathburn is to present it.”

“Excellent,” Dove murmured. “Very interesting.”

“Our Highland sort is pure nectar,” Scott went on. “Distilled by an acquaintance of Strathburn’s. What was the name?”

“Glenbrae, a licensed distillery.” Dare wished Sir Walter had not been so forthcoming. Highlanders sometimes skirted strict English trade laws to protect the whisky production, so it was prudent to say little about it.

“Where is this hallowed treasure?” Dove asked. “Best get it to Carlton House soon before it is stolen, if it is that good.” He laughed.

“Safe on a steamer, where it will stay until I claim it,” Dare said.

“Ah! Well, sirs, before we take our seats,” Dove said, “is anyone keen for a bit of amusement after the performance? My cousin owns a gaming establishment, a reputable place, finest clientele only. She could offer good Highland whisky there, Lord Lyon, if you could supply her.”

“I do not supply it. Just the once for the king.”

“Do you play games of chance, sir, cards, wagers, that sort of thing?”

“At times.” Instinct, and banked temper, warned him to be cautious around this man. He still simmered over what he had witnessed with Hannah Gordon.

“Some of us will head there later,” Dove told the group. “My son will go. Needs to prove himself. Good opportunity. Sir George, Sir Walter? Strathburn, you as well? I believe Lockhart and young Huntly will come as well.”

“Where is this place?” Dare asked.

“Not far. Near St. James Park. Games, good drink, camaraderie, so on. If my son Charles dips out, as he tends to be timid, we will need another fellow in the game.”

“I am not much for gambling,” Dare said.

“But you must see more of London life before you go north again. Pity we do not have a cache of fine Highland whisky to tempt you. It must be worth a fortune!” Sir Frederic grinned at Naylor as he spoke.

“To smugglers, perhaps!” Naylor said cheerfully. “Alas, I am not for games this evening, and will leave it to the younger fellows.”

“The hour is too late for my old bones,” Scott said. “Strathburn, I can see Miss Gordon and her cousin home in my carriage.”

“Excellent.” Dare was relieved that the girls would be in safe company. Aware of some threat to Hannah, he wanted to keep an eye on Dove. “I could come along, aye.”

“Chimes again. Last call.” Sir Walter jabbed his cane toward the auditorium.

“Where did Miss Gordon go?” Dove asked as they walked.

“She and her cousins will sit in the duke’s box for the rest of the play,” Dare said. “They wanted to meet Mr. Scott.”

“I shall entertain them,” Sir Walter said magnanimously, with a meaningful glance toward Dare that said he knew the reason for the change.

“Huh. I wanted to talk with her again,” Dove muttered.

“I believe the lady said all she had to say,” Dare murmured. The man sent him a sharp glance and stomped off.

“Odious fellow,” Scott said low. “I wonder what he wants.”

“I mean to find out,” Dare said.